


From the Ashes

by hibernate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Baby Animals, Bitterness, Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Coping, F/F, Fear, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-21 16:24:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: Vivienne has come to expect a certain idiocy from the Inquisitor, but adopting a baby phoenix is above and beyond, even for her.





	1. Embers

**Author's Note:**

> [Dragon Age phoenixes are pretty much dinosaurs](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Phoenix) and for some inexplicable reason I am compelled to eventually write a dinosaur fic in every fandom I'm in.
> 
> I never thought I had it in me to write an actual Inquisitor ship, but here we are, strange new world, etc. (If I stumble, please be kind.)

The Fade spits them back out at Adamant Fortress, and the Inquisitor does as she is wont to do, bringing the Grey Wardens into the fold as if they were nothing but errant sheep straying too far from the flock. It's hardly the option Vivienne would prefer, but by now, she knows Adaar well enough to predict where her foolish little predilections will steer her.

The journey back to Skyhold goes through the desert, the heat hanging like a cloud around them, thick and pressing. At Adaar's insistence, they cross some days ahead of the troops and the Wardens. Mercifully so; the less time Vivienne is required to spend with either is preferable.

Adaar rides in the front, gloomy and quiet with her back set in a rigid posture, keeping a tight grip on the reins. Cassandra does not fare much better, her face drawn into a perpetual scowl since leaving Adamant. Sensing the mood of the group, Vivienne's gelding is irritable as a result, ears flicking, nostrils flaring. Usually, he's a sensible, well-bred horse — not on par with horses she is accustomed to, of course, but decent enough.

Behind them, Sera ambles along on her sturdy pony, singing something unbearably crude and equally unbearably off-key. No one was more terrified than her in the Fade, but whether through youthful ignorance or the power of denial, she seems to have recovered with unprecedented speed.

Letting the horses set the pace in the blistering sun, they are not prepared for an attack. Phoenixes are savage predators at the best of times, and this one charges with unusual ferocity, leaving Sera with a deep scratch down her arm, the rags she calls clothes further ruined, and Cassandra with an ugly bite under her helmet, a line of jagged teeth caught in the back of her neck, just along her hairline.

Adaar's vitaar is smudged, but the skin underneath is unharmed — sometimes it seems almost as if she walked out of the Fade in Haven with an invisible shield protecting her from all harm.

The phoenix is a mangy beast, emaciated and weak, teeth clearly rotting out of its mouth. Cassandra stares at the dead shape of it on the ground, as if expecting it to move; in the Fade, Vivienne saw her shudder at the sight of the Nightmare Demon's fearlings. _Maggots, crawling in filth_ , she'd muttered to the Champion. A strange thing for a warrior to fear. Stranger still for Adaar to claim that the same little demons took the form of spiders. For someone whose heart beats for everything small and ugly, one would expect differently.

Adaar says nothing as she glances at the feathered lizard. Then, gaze lifting sharply, her eyes scan the area, searching for something in particular. She finds it in a nearby tangle of bushes; moving branches aside, she sinks down to her knees in the sand, back slouching.

It is not difficult to guess what she has found.

Sera's face falls as she steps up behind her, leaning over her shoulder, peeking between Adaar's horns. "Oh no. She had _kittens_."

Cassandra frowns, walking up beside Adaar and removing a thick, leafy branch to reveal what they've discovered. Glancing past Cassandra, it is as Vivienne thought: a nest, inhabited by two downy hatchlings, curled up in death, dehydrated and starved. In the corner, pushed away from the nest, are three unhatched eggs; discarded for whatever reason. Perhaps even the phoenix, adamant as she was in seeking to protect her offspring, saw in them a lost cause.

"The desert is a cruel place," Vivienne says, remaining where she stands. "It's unlikely that she would have lived, wasting her efforts on her young in vain. Our involvement merely cut short a slow, wasting death."

Adaar does not turn around, eyes locked on the dead hatchlings. "You heal people. Are these creatures so undeserving?"

"I cannot heal the dead, Inquisitor. There is nothing to be done."

"Vivienne is right," Cassandra agrees, voice unusually gentle as she puts a hand on Adaar's shoulder. "It is the way of things."

Adaar does not acknowledge their words, lips thinning and eyes still fixed on the dead creatures. 

Watching her, Vivienne wonders at how small she makes herself sometimes. She's a magnificent sight wielding a sword so huge it's nearly as tall as Vivienne. The strength in those arms and shoulders, those intense foreign eyes against her gray skin, the fear her stature inspires — it creates an effect so impressive few can deny it. The quiet, brusque way she has about her only makes the impression more striking.

Her hands... the steadfast way they clutch her sword, the power she wields as she effortlessly lifts her palm to close those cracks that run through the very fabric of the world. 

It's lucky that the people have never seen her cradle wounded animals in those hands, or watched her dig into the dirt to nurture flowers and herbs. As if on a mission of stupidity, Adaar spends her time making friends with horses instead of engaging in any useful pursuits. A bleeding heart is good for no one.

Reaching back, Cassandra yanks a tooth out of her neck with a wince.

"Sit," Vivienne says, and Cassandra acquiesces without protest, dropping to one knee.

Vivienne is not particularly gentle as she pushes Cassandra's head down. Wounds must not be left alone to fester in the heat.

Plucking another tooth out of her neck, Vivienne spies, in the corner of her eye, Adaar furtively snatching the three unhatched eggs, stuffing them into her bag. With a sigh, Vivienne drags one last tooth out of Cassandra's skin, choosing, for the moment, to say nothing.

 

*

 

Cassandra takes notice a few nights later, as she is tending to the campfire.

"Are we having omelette, Inquisitor?" she asks with a frown, looking at Adaar's feet, where the top of a speckled gray egg is peeking out of her bag. 

"No," Adaar says, quickly closing her bag and covering up the evidence.

The bag has become Adaar's most precious cargo. It's a small miracle that neither Cassandra nor Sera has noticed until now, but then again, perhaps it is to be expected in those who have no experience keeping their guard up among companions.

Adaar makes poor decisions. Vivienne is unlikely to look away.

"Apparently," Vivienne remarks, "our Inquisitor has taken to carrying around things long since dead."

Lips pressing into a line, Adaar's gaze falls on Vivienne, the intensity of her golden eyes enough to make most stand back. The truth does not please her, but the Inquisition is full of those who would bend over backwards in order to placate and appease. Vivienne will never be one of them.

Still, beneath her anger at Vivienne's remark, there's a depth in those eyes, a strain around her mouth. The Fade took its toll, as it always does. Adaar has not spent her life learning how to handle it. Even having that kind of experience did not prove to be entirely effective when falling into its midst.

"It's no use, my dear," Vivienne says, softening a fraction. "There's no life left in them."

A flicker in the expression on her face; some manner of alarming emotion quickly pushed down. "How do you know?"

Vivienne hesitates, despite herself. 

Reaching out — a concession she would not make for most — she puts a hand on one of the eggs, touching the Fade and pulling from it a thread of magic. It fades into nothing, as she knew it would, the glow on her palm dying as her magic finds no purchase. 

The second egg yields the same result as the first. 

Vivienne puts her hand on the third egg and Adaar stares at her hand, a stubborn set to her jaw, as if she could will life to where none exists. Once, she made a stretcher of branches and dragged a dying horse for miles with an arrow in her shoulder. The horse did not make it in the end. Such foolishness in the face of insurmountable odds ought not be encouraged.

Another pull on the Fade and Vivienne's magic flares: an answered question. A burst shoots up her fingers as the strands of magic find an unlikely spark.

Under Vivienne's hand, the shell cracks.

 

*

 

It's truly the most pathetic of creatures. 

Late to hatch, small and scrawny, covered by downy gray feathers, and Vivienne doubts that it would have lived for many days had they not come upon it, even with a stronger mother. Cradled in Adaar's hands, it looks like little more than a collection of feathers and bones. Adaar and Sera — of course — coo over the little beast as if it were made of solid gold.

To her credit, Cassandra eyes it with wariness. "This is unwise, Inquisitor," she says, standing next to the fire with her arms crossed.

There is no point; Adaar will not heed such words. Vivienne can see the futility in every determined line of her body.

"It won't survive on its own," Adaar says, a stubborn set to her jaw.

"It may not survive even with our aid," Cassandra counters, shooting the bony whelp in Adaar's hands a skeptical look. "If it does, what do you intend to do with it?"

"I intend to give it a chance to live. Not everything needs to have a _function_."

Cassandra huffs out a derisive sigh. "It is not a pet. You cannot dress it up like an Orlesian dog, or teach it to hunt like a mabari."

The glare Adaar levels Cassandra with is hard, biting, foolishly stubborn. "Or parade it around like an embalmed corpse?" she asks, sticking her jaw out. "That's the sort of pet Nevarrans prefer, isn't it?"

Anger makes a flush rise up Cassandra's neck. A touchy subject, one of many. There's enough to make a list, if one is inclined; no wonder even Adaar manages to find a sore spot on which to push.

Oblivious to the tension, or perhaps simply choosing to ignore it, Sera makes little noises at the beast, tickling its small wings. "Too scrawny," she says. "What's a chicken pup eat anyway?"

"Its mother would hunt," Vivienne replies, "and return to regurgitate digested food into the mouths of her young."

For a moment, Adaar actually looks as if she is considering the idea.

The pathetic little creature squeaks and flaps its useless wings. Adaar puts it down on the ground, and it flops over on its side, weak and uncoordinated. It would be best for everyone if they simply put it out of its misery , but Vivienne knows Adaar will not allow any such thing. She will grow attached, and when the beast perishes, she will suffer for it. It's as if she never learned how to protect herself.

The hatchling squeaks again, getting to its feet and waddling unsteadily away from the fire.

"Oi you," Sera says, "little fluff chicken, where you going?"

It's clearly too much of a weakling to make it far, but it seems fairly determined. Unsteady as it is, it seems that every step awakens something inside of it, something of the predator it was born to be. Perhaps it will not die so easily, after all.

It stops by Vivienne's boot, climbing on top of it with some difficulty.

For the first time in awhile, Adaar smiles. It's sly, but it lights her up all the same. Once, long ago, she had offered the same ridiculous grin along with the words, _Is your interest in the Inquisition, Madame de Fer, or is it more personal?_

Only a fool would be so presumptuous, so utterly without tact. If it was a bid at humor, it fell short by miles. 

"Vivienne," she says, unexpected levity creeping into her voice, and as always when Adaar says her name, Vivienne cannot make herself look away for anything. "You were the first thing she saw when she hatched. I think she believes you're her mother."

What an excellent time for Adaar to rediscover her sense of humor. On the other side of the fire, Sera snorts, practically vibrating in a fit of childish giggles.

"Wonderful," Vivienne says, lifting her boot to deposit the whelp back on the ground. "Be so kind as to keep it away from me."

 

*

 

Adaar tucks the feathered lizard under her shirt when she curls up to sleep next to Sera's bedroll. Vivienne lies down close to the fire, stretching her legs out, as Cassandra assumes first watch.

The sky is clear and bright with stars. As a child of the Circle, she memorized every constellation, whispered promises from the Fade tempting her with images of those stars falling into her open hands. The all-consuming hunger that had once been a constant companion, if never a friend, had in the Circle transformed into another kind of want.

 _A mage must always be vigilant_ , her teachers said, and late at night, when she fell asleep over a book in the library, cool hands touched her neck, a melodic voice behind her back repeated, _You are stronger than they are_. The voice was not wrong. She'd sensed her own strength, felt the Fade resonate with something inside of her, something _hungry_. But long before stepping into the Circle in Ostwick, she'd learned that hunger can be dangerous and make you careless. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.

"If you do not intend to sleep," Cassandra says quietly from her watch point further from the fading fire, "you might have offered to take watch."

On the other side of the fire, Adaar sleeps, face as sour as it was while she was awake. In bright contrast, Sera's features are positively angelic — a necessary defense mechanism to prevent people from strangling the devious little monster in her sleep, clearly.

"It is strange," Vivienne observes, "that the only one of us coming out of the Fade in anything but a foul mood is the elf child terrified of magic."

The scowl on Cassandra's face deepens to an almost comical degree. "I am not in a foul mood."

"My dear," Vivienne says, gently chiding, "do not dwell on the Fade. Nothing good comes of that. Nothing from there is to be trusted."

"We were in the Fade. Does that make us something not to be trusted?"

"It would, in time."

In a flash, the image of Hawke appears before her mind's eye: trapped in the Fade, alone. If she was unlucky enough to survive her attack on the Nightmare demon, Vivienne would not wish to encounter what sort of creature she would eventually turn into.

Is that what plagues Adaar in her sleep? It should. Only a fool would think themselves untouched. She had stared between Stroud and Hawke, frozen and pale. In the end, it was Hawke who grabbed Stroud's arm, muttering: _my brother is a Warden, if the idiot is still alive. He's never listened to me. I'm the last person to sort this mess out, but you – you're not as dumb as you look._

"You are too hard on her," Cassandra says. The scars on her face seem faded in the moonlight, the sharpness of her features muted. There is no question of whom she is referring to.

"Curious," Vivienne replies. "I find that others are not hard _enough_ on her. She has the potential to be great, and she squashes it. If she is not fit to make the decisions that fall on a leader, we are all wasting our time."

"You did not used to hold her to standards you know she will not reach," Cassandra says. "Surely you have known from the start that she has a soft heart."

Her gaze is searching, and Vivienne shudders to remember that in the Fade, Cassandra would have seen far too much of what she would prefer not to share. She, and every one of them. Ashes in her mouth and a gravestone, beckoning: her name spelled in elaborately decorated letters. A furtive glance around had revealed one for them each and she had memorized every word on them.

Curiously, there'd been none for Adaar. The gravestone in front of her had been completely blank, lacking even a name, and Adaar's eyes had been locked on something far away. Vivienne had followed her gaze, and there'd been something there, in the distance, a glimpse of a horned figure in the mist, a spirit of the Fade taking the shape of a Qunari woman, walking towards some far away horizon.

"Go to sleep, Seeker," Vivienne says, pushing thoughts of the Fade away. "I will keep watch."

Cassandra does not argue, and Vivienne listens as she lies down to rest, breaths turning shallow and rhythmic soon enough. 

There are carefully constructed stories of her youth that she will share: a confidence in exchange for another. Only one person had worn her defenses down, while she was still too young to know what such vulnerability might cost. For a long time she thought luck spared her having to pay that prize. Bastien had a gentle heart, far more so than what was good for him. He never betrayed that trust, but that hardly mattered. The Game is played to the death.

What a fool life made of her in the end. 

 

*

 

Adaar carries the little feathered lizard under her shirt on the journey back to Skyhold. 

It takes to staring mournfully at Vivienne whenever it comes out, accompanied by little sad squeaks; Vivienne learns quickly to ignore the sound. Despite her misgivings about its chances for survival, by the time they reach Skyhold, it can barely fit inside Adaar's shirt.

"I admit, I did not expect it to live," Cassandra says, watching the creature flail its wings as Adaar puts it down on the courtyard.

Vivienne sighs. "Astonishing what the best of our food and constant attention to the exclusion of everything else can do. Truly a Maker-given miracle."

In fact, it's grown rather chubby, having Sera and Adaar feed it with great enthusiasm. It's also developed a somewhat devious streak when it comes to begging for more – a tactic that even Cassandra seems unable to resist. Children of all species have a knack for manipulation: the most basic of survival skills. 

Adaar and her pet quickly gain an audience in the courtyard. The little beast seems to thrive on the attention, preening and making a show under the eyes of the crowd.

"A little lady, this one," Blackwall says, scratching the back of the beast's neck to its great delight. They have this in common, him and Adaar: preferring the company of animals to people. No small wonder they get along.

Adaar casts a long look in Vivienne's direction, mercifully deciding to keep her mouth shut.

"Her name's Fluffy, innit?" Sera announces proudly. "Very soft."

"She is exceptionally ugly," Dorian says, looking absolutely enthralled.

The Iron Bull, to Vivienne's great disappointment, looks equally enamored. "Hey, I'm sure she'll grow into those feathers eventually. Those claws are gonna be great at slicing stuff open."

With that, the creature is brought into the fold. Some sort of collective delusion, clearly. It wouldn't be the first time Adaar has inspired one of those – perhaps that's where her true talent lies. 

"Sera taught her a few tricks," Adaar offers, and the congregation dissolves into utter nonsense at Sera's eager demonstration. 

Vivienne takes her leave.

 

*

 

It's a blessedly quiet few days that follows, entirely without the presence of Adaar and her little pet. Vivienne keeps to the spaces she has made hers and there is much to be done. Eventually, the peace is broken by Cassandra coming out of the library, clearing her throat and shuffling her feet.

"Vivienne," she says. "I have been reluctantly tasked to request your presence in – the Inquisitor's quarters."

Putting her quill down, Vivienne crosses her arms. "What a curious request."

"For some reason Adaar seems to think you are less likely to say no to me than to her."

The statement is not entirely wrong: Cassandra lacks charm, but she does possess an earnestness that makes one wish to accommodate her. That does not mean Vivienne will fall for such an obvious ploy. 

"Apparently," Cassandra continues, "the phoenix is... mourning your absence."

So there it is, a request that only concerns pointless things, when there are so many things of great importance that Adaar _should_ be saying. "Does she truly think I will obey the whims of a beast?"

Cassandra does not get the chance to answer the question – it was not truly one for her to answer anyway – because there is a crashing sound from the library, and another, louder: a cacophony heralding the approaching disaster. If Vivienne were to venture a guess, it would be one that involved the actions of two gangly, long-legged wild things with questionable intelligence. 

The door to the library bursts open, nearly falling off its hinges, revealing the two beasts in question. Sera grins. The whelp seems to be having some sort of seizure. 

"Yeah, friggin' knew _that_ " – Sera waves a hand in Cassandra's general direction – "wasn't gonna work. Oi, Vivvy! I know you got your head up your arse about this, but Fluffy needs her mum. She's too sad to eat."

Considering the cookie crumbs on its nose and the somewhat convex shape of its stomach, Vivienne very much doubts that. The whelp jumps up on her _chaise-longue_ and burps, the rancid stink of sulphuric acid filling the room. 

"Get it off my furniture and out of this room, before I encase it in ice."

"Yeah, yeah," Sera mutters, adding, under her breath, " _Bitch_."

Turning, Vivienne rolls her eyes, and in the corner of her eye, she sees Sera making a rude gesture with her hand, before gathering the phoenix up in her arms, bony limbs poking out in every direction. Its tongue lolls out as it gives Vivienne a somewhat cross-eyed look, jaw crooked to the side in an eerie facsimile of a smile. It does seem happy to see her. Vivienne cannot say the same for herself.

"Tell Adaar that if she wants something, she can ask me herself."

That is apparently exactly what they tell her, because it is not long after they leave that Adaar sweeps in, white hair flapping about her ears. She smells like outdoors, like wind and chill, bringing a bit of the autumn inside with her. There's a frown on her face, eyes narrow, lips curled down; a thunderstorm of gray, white and gold. 

Adaar has always been exceptionally beautiful when she's angry.

"Your lack of empathy astounds me," she says, eyes like lightning. She is used to being imposing among humans by no other virtue than her size and the startling intensity of her golden eyes. She ought to know that such things have no effect on Vivienne. 

"It is a beast," Vivienne replies. "It will live."

"She _pines_ for you."

"Such things are not fatal." Pausing for a breath, Vivienne adds, giving her inflection a touch of ice, "As I'm sure you're aware."

As if struck, Adaar flinches.

The petty, cold satisfaction of it soars through her bones, and Vivienne soaks up every line of hurt on her face.

"I thought at least you would do it as a favor for me," Adaar says, raising her chin. "You have a debt."

The silence that follows is rather deafening. At her sides, her fingers twitch with the urge to clench into fists before she can stop herself. "A debt," she says. 

Adaar walks gingerly over to the open balcony doors, the light striking her and making the colors of her face and clothes come alive. "At the time, I foolishly considered it a favor for a friend. Since I was mistaken, what could it possibly be other than a debt?"

"The heart you provided was useless." Vivienne stands very still as she speaks. "Is that the sort of debt you wish me to owe you?"

"There was nothing wrong with the heart. I know the concept is hard for you to grasp, but you were just wrong." Adaar inhales as if she has more to say, but instead of voicing whatever is on her mind, her jaw clenches shut and her eyes grow hard. "I did my part. The failure was on you."

In the silence between them, Vivienne breathes slowly and surely, a controlled repetition — _inhale, exhale, inhale_ — even while it seems like her chest will not expand to let in air. Against her ribs, her heart beats a quick staccato, so hard she can feel the vibrations of her pulse in her ears. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link – she had not expected to find another link as frail as this one. Adaar is clever to tug on it, to cut with such precision.

Vivienne has never been prouder of her, nor more angry.

She has trained for what feels like a lifetime to keep the mask in place whether it is physically there or not; bare-faced and reeling, she leans on that, control never slipping. "You are treading on dangerous ground, darling," she says, her tone betraying nothing. "Watch your step."

"I always do around you," Adaar says, and turns to walk away, leaving Vivienne behind, alone.

 _Tell me what I can do_ , Adaar had said on the way back from Ghislain, putting her hand on top of Vivienne's, her left one – the hand with the Mark. How easily it all turns to ash. Vivienne had stared at that hand, before brushing it off like a speck of dirt. 

_You've done quite enough._


	2. Glacier

By leaps and bounds, the whelp seems to have grown into an actual phoenix. Still small, with much growing left to do, but recognizably a predator, albeit one of the uglier ones. There is clearly something not right about its crooked jaw, and Adaar has so far been unsuccessful in her attempts at teaching the poor thing to hunt. The blind leading the blind, as it were. 

They travel to Emprise du Lion, Adaar riding with Blackwall at the front and the beast ambling along next to their horses. Varric spends his time telling various high tales that make Adaar smirk, Blackwall groan, and the phoenix make a number of excited chirps, as if it would have the faintest idea what a pirate is. Vivienne chooses to ignore all four of them.

The snow falls heavy for days on end as they travel closer to the Emprise. It clings to Vivienne's eyelashes, melts on her skin. Adaar's vitaar smudges and fades until there's hardly any of it left. The sight of the faded colors irks her, a constant little niggle; there is no point to wearing it if it is not properly applied.

"You vitaar needs a fresh coat," Vivienne tells her when they stop to let their horses rest and eat.

Adaar brings her fingertips up to touch her cheek and nods. They have not spoken since leaving Skyhold, but then, Adaar has been quiet in general. Since before the journey started as well – since they found the phoenix in the desert.

Fetching the jars from her pack, she moves towards the sheltering cliff side, but Vivienne stops her with a hand on her arm. She cannot recall the last time she touched Adaar; it seems oddly intimate, despite her gloves and Adaar's thick coat.

"Last time you looked like you had fallen face-first into a circus tent."

Adaar hesitates, gaze dwelling on Vivienne's uncovered face. "It is not safe for humans," she says, nevertheless extending her hands and letting Vivienne pluck the jars from them.

"I am aware of the effects."

Starting with her hair, Vivienne pulls it from Adaar's face, braiding it quickly and firmly against her scalp. She likes to wear it in a bun — a careless one that always comes loose, making her look untidy and sloppy, and making Vivienne's fingers itch to do something about it.

Vivienne has watched Adaar apply the paint to her skin many times. She cycles through several patterns, the meaning of which Vivienne does not know. Information about Qunari customs is not easily accessed, certainly not in Skyhold's meager library. Meanings matter little, though – among those Adaar needs to impress, few are Qunari and fewer still familiar with the patterns of the vitaar. They have an intimidating effect, hiding any hint of softness on her face, turning the sweetest of smiles into a fierce grimace. It's not unlike a mask, and Vivienne favors one in front of others.

Touching her gloved fingers to her chin, Vivienne ignores the little flinch that Adaar tries to hide. She splays her fingers along the sharp curve of her jaw, following with her eyes the scar that runs over her cheekbone and temple, disappearing in to the white of her hairline. With great care, she paints golden scales down the side of her cheeks, watching how the poison glows on her skin for some moments before it sinks in, turning her skin diamond-hard.

Adaar stares into the distance as Vivienne works. There is something in the air; a sense of waiting. Vivienne does not like the look in Adaar's eyes. 

"It's a pity," Adaar says, looking at her little pet, engaged in some sort of complex game in the snow with Varric. "Those creatures born with useless wings. The promise of an escape, but no matter how much she tries, she will never fly."

"A phoenix is more than capable of defending itself on the ground," Vivienne replies, "they have no need to fly." Glancing to her side, Vivienne sees the phoenix chase after Varric only for it to tangle its feet together and fall flat on its face. "Not this one, obviously. It's clearly defective."

Finished, she lowers her hands, examining the pattern of scales on gray skin. The gold, echoed in her eyes, is striking against the ash of her skin.

Taking a hold of her hands, Adaar carefully brushes her fingers over every part of her gloves, removing every speck of imaginary dust. There's no trace of her vitaar there, of course. Vivienne knows how to take care with such things; she would not have excelled at alchemy if she did not know how to handle substances dangerous to the touch. Besides that, she has painted her own face with meticulous detail before jumping into the fray since she was first introduced at the Orlesian court.

Vivienne will not never be one of those who indulges the Inquisitor's every silly whim, but she will humor this impulse, harmless as it is. Adaar's eyes are narrowed, focused on the task at hand, lips pressed into a line. Her gloves are snoefleur skin, crafted according to her specific instructions, the cut one that even the Empress would envy. With Adaar's bare fingers brushing over her palms, she is struck by a fervent urge to wish the gloves entirely out of existence.

A noise from the horizon draws her attention, an alien shriek that makes the hair at the back of her neck stand, and Adaar snaps her head up, hands still clasped around Vivienne's. 

The sky is muddled gray, and over the white cliff tops, a dark shape hovers, floating on the air.

"Dragon," Adaar breathes. "It's beautiful."

"It's dangerous," Vivienne corrects sharply.

Blackwall looks up at the creature in the distance. "There's a storm coming."

 

*

 

The temperature drops suddenly as they near the Emprise, turning the air so dry and brittle it seems almost unfit to breathe. The wind turns biting, little icicles that no one would consider _snow_ whipping into her face.

Their pace slows to a crawl, horses hindered by the snow and the cold. It's a lucky feat that the Inquisitor decided against bringing Dorian or Sera — one of which cannot abide any sort of weather and one who plain refuses to wear anything that doesn't have holes in it. Even Blackwall's questionable company is preferable to being forced into keeping a stubborn urchin from losing her fingers to frostbite.

It gets worse once the snowfall turns heavier, and then, little by little, the wind picks up.

It's barely mid-day when Blackwall pulls on his reins and sidles up to Adaar. "The horses," he says simply, and Adaar nods, as if they share a mind.

"We'll have to find shelter," Adaar calls to the rest of them. "The horses are not used to this kind of cold."

Varric remembers a cave they passed not long ago and when they double back, they find it littered with bones and smelling like bear. The phoenix promptly crawls into the deepest corner, curling itself into a ball with a displeased chirp, and Vivienne can hardly blame it. Adaar cares for the horses, rubbing their coats free of snow and removing packed ice from their hooves. Blackwall and Varric go outside to find something that will sustain a fire, and Vivienne carves wards into the air, around the opening of the cave.

"They're not back yet," Adaar observes once she is finished with the horses. 

Beginning the painstaking work of another spell, this one particularly difficult, Vivienne says nothing. No beast or Red Templar would stick their face out into the blizzard, which means the only thing one has to fear outside the cave is one's own stupidity. Blackwall and Varric will live or die by their own wits.

In the corner of her eye, she sees Adaar putting a blanket over the phoenix, whispering what is sure to be gentle words the creature won't understand, and then aim her steps towards the mouth of the cave. 

She catches Adaar's arm as she moves to walk past her. "Do you have a death wish?" she asks, as she continues drawing the necessary symbols in the air with her other hand, eyes trained on her work. "You will save no one by going out there."

Standing rigid, Adaar stares into the white storm. "I am not asking you to come."

"How comforting to know you've only lost _half_ of your senses."

Adaar exhales, shrugging free of Vivienne's grasp. "Keep warm."

And then she's gone, striding out into the snow. Ire rising in a hot blaze up her neck, Vivienne's hand falters, spellwork cracking and disintegrating before her.

"Inquisitor!" she calls, voice muted, as if the snow outside the cave had swallowed up the sound of it; there is no answer.

Hands clenching into fists, Vivienne stares out at the snow. How pointless, how _utterly stupid_. 

The foolish girl is going to get herself killed, finally.

The Inquisition would go on without her, of course. Others would rally and though none would have the Mark on their hand, someone would eventually find the trick to the Rifts and learn how to close them. No one, not Adaar, not even Andraste herself, is irreplaceable. One finds a way, all the faster if fueled by desperation, and there are always those waiting for an opportunity to step into the light. And Adaar is not Andraste; she is not even a particularly good leader. The potential she does possess is always squandered by one reason or another — excuses, mitigating circumstances. 

Though it might not be voiced out loud, the truth of it is that those who would take her place might be better suited for the task. 

Staring out into the dark and the snow, Vivienne truly wishes that any of it mattered. Tugging her coat more firmly around herself, she adjusts her hennin and her scarf. Leaving the phoenix and the horses to their own devices, she takes a breath and casts a barrier. It cannot be maintained forever, but it's better than nothing.

Adaar's footprints are already gone. The weather has only gotten worse since they found the cave. The wind is almost enough to knock her off her feet, snow coming down so thick it's nothing more than a wall of white in every direction. 

She must be practical now, must not be swayed by what she cannot change. Adaar is resilient, hardy, stubborn, and Qunari are built like mountains with legs. In Haven, she survived an avalanche and made her way while injured through worse conditions than this. The only thing she needs to be protected from, it seems, is her own stupidity.

The barrier drops; a harsh wind hits her and she stumbles, dropping down to her knees, the ground lurching under her. 

She stands anew, making her way forward. She will not perish in the snow; the elements will not best her. The wind will bend to her if she angles her barrier the right way. Shielding herself once more, she keeps her balance, finding equilibrium in the space between the wind and her magic.

The hissing of the wind is too loud to carry her voice, and the cold embrace of snow in every direction brings forward slippery thoughts, an unbidden image from somewhere in the depths of her mind, a memory from the Fade: a Qunari woman silhouetted against the rising sun, walking away into the distance.

Somewhere, a voice calls.

Her name on the wind; Vivienne turns and it's a vision no more. Adaar's shape, in the dark, moving closer. 

"Vivienne," she says again. Stopping abruptly, she simply stares, eyes wild and strange. "I told you not to come."

Breathing hard, Vivienne gathers herself, mask slipping back into place. "We all make unfortunate decisions sometimes."

 

*

 

They have wandered too far and the weather is too severe, there is no possible way to find their way back in the dark and in the snow. Adaar burrows a hole in the snow under a big spruce tree while Vivienne shields her from the wind with her magic, and with Adaar's sword, they hack off branches from another spruce to put on the floor under the tree.

Inside the hollow, Vivienne lights a flame to dance on her palm. Making it warm, she lets the heat sink into her skin. A temporary measure only, of course. Such things expend more energy than what little warmth they provide.

Brushing off the snowflakes that cling to her short hair with her other hand, she realizes with a start that her head is uncovered. She'd gone out in the blizzard with her hennin on, but it's gone now, taken by the wind and the snow. The chances of finding it again are no doubt non-existent.

A gift that was one of many once, sweet but unimportant; now – a precious thing that cannot be replaced. Hopelessly out of fashion, she could not wear it anywhere important. It was the last thing Bastien ever gave her.

"My hennin," she says, looking at Adaar, squashing every tremor from her voice.

"You have others," Adaar says with a shrug.

The sudden surge of anger makes her cheeks warm. "It was _invaluable_."

"If it cost you that much you should have hung it on the wall. This is no place for a fashion statement."

How little she understands. How far away those days seem, when there were those who would understand implicitly, allies who did not need to have the obvious spelled out in words — Bastien, who always simply _knew_.

The vitaar has protected Adaar's face, but her lips are chapped and raw and there is ice on her eyebrows, snow caked into her hair. The wind has turned her eyes red, tear-tracks frozen on her cheeks. They are shielded and out of danger, their winter clothes will keep them from freezing, but Adaar is shivering in the cold and Vivienne cannot stand the look of it. 

"Come," Vivienne says. "You know as well as I do how best to stay warm in the cold."

Hesitant, Adaar fits herself into the space under her arm. Adaar lies very still, breaths steady and slow, matching the hiss of the wind outside their shelter. Her big body seems smaller than it ought to be in Vivienne's arms. Their legs shiver together, and Vivienne holds her closer.

"It seems we are not the only ones to find shelter here," Adaar says, gesturing towards the stem of the tree, where a small spider skitters across the bark. " _Spider, spider on a twig, tell me how'd you get so big?_ "

"Don't be macabre," Vivienne says, recognizing the absurd children's rhyme Free Marcher parents lull their young to sleep with. Luckily, Circle children are not exposed to such nonsense.

" _There was no food, the spider said; I ate your family instead._ "

"Lovely."

Her nose is cold, and she presses it against the nape of Adaar's neck to warm it, feeling Adaar shiver in response.

Once, long ago, in a dark corridor lit by moonlight, she said, _Is your interest in the Inquisition, Madame de Fer, or is it more personal?_

So presumptuous, so utterly without tact... she would never let Adaar know that the audacity of it amused her.

"I brought you the heart you asked for," Adaar says out of nowhere. "I would never—" 

Her timing is disastrous, as always. They will not die tonight, the storm will subside — there is no reason to make amends and settle what cannot be settled.

"This is hardly the time," Vivienne says, sharply enough that Adaar heeds the request, lapsing into silence.

Eventually, Adaar's breaths even out in sleep, her body becoming pliant and soft under Vivienne's arm. Vivienne falls asleep too, after some time, starting awake when the sound of voices reach their den. Adaar stirs at the sound of her name being called, groaning as she moves. No wonder, if her limbs are as stiff as Vivienne's.

Eyelids heavy with ice, she struggles to open her eyes, breath a cloud in the whiteness around her. Other than the voices outside their shelter, everything is quiet. The wind has died down and their breaths are loud in the silence. Her feet are numb, like her fingers, and the cold burns on her cheeks. Still, there is warmth between them, where they are pressed up against each other, bodies slotting together like two pieces in a puzzle. 

Outside their make-shift burrow, Varric yells for the Inquisitor again.

"I was dreaming," Adaar mumbles, moving to dig throw the snow under the tree for an exit. "Could they not have waited another hour before rescuing us?"

Suddenly cold down to her bones, in the absence of Adaar's warm body, Vivienne sighs. The voices outside their den is accompanied by a series of excited squeaks. "I do wish they'd left the beast behind."

The beast in question is beside itself with glee at having found them. It's also dressed up in some sort of appalling approximation of a coat, the color choices of which threatens to cause permanent blindness.

"Blackwall knitted a sweater for her," Varric says with a grin. "He's got a knack for crafts."

"It's wonderful," Adaar says, smiling fondly and Vivienne wonders how the others cannot hear the obvious lie in her voice. At the very least Blackwall doesn't — red-faced already from the cold, he chuckles slightly, rubbing his beard.

"She's a desert bird. Those feathers won't keep her warm. It was going to be a surprise."

"Oh yeah," Varric adds, holding out a bundle in Vivienne's direction, "and she found your hat."

Adaar huffs. "Thank the Maker. She was more worried about that than me."

Frozen, Vivienne takes the hennin from Varric. It's whole, though suspiciously soggy, as if it had spent some time in, for example, the mouth of an excitable beast prone to drooling. With a sudden ferocity, she despises the sight of Adaar. She must turn her back to keep herself on an even keel.

Clutching the hennin in her hands, she does not wait for the others before heading back in the direction of the cave.

 

*

 

Emprise du Lion is beautiful, despite everything. Adaar rids the area of Red Templars and stakes her claim on the quarry and on Suledin Keep. The dragons on the other side of Judicael's Crossing are left alone, and will continue to be so, by the Inquisitor's official decree. Another of Adaar's quirks that her people no longer question.

As they leave the area, Adaar watches from a distance as the dragons circle high in the air, a sour look on her face. If Vivienne did not know better, she would think her jealous. "Have you developed a wish for wings?" she asks. 

"Who wouldn't want to fly?"

"I like the ground just fine," Varric says.

"Horses are good enough for me," Blackwall adds with a shrug.

Adaar narrows her eyes at them and turns away. The whelp comes up to rub its face on her hip, and her white hair melts into the snow around them, gray skin a breathless contrast against the white. Ember and ashes: gray, white and gold. A painter could not have blended colors more perfectly. 

In the morning, Vivienne wakes at dawn to find that Adaar is gone.

Next to her in their four-man tent — an unfortunate necessity in the cold — Varric snores softly, and on the other side, Blackwall is fast asleep on his side, face buried in the crook of his arm. Adaar is rarely the first to rise; she is prone to chills in the morning, unlikely to leave the warmth of her blankets before it's necessary.

Outside of the tent, it's snowing. Adaar's tracks are almost gone; faint impressions of footprints covered by fresh snow. They lead back from where they came, through trees and down a narrow path. Only after a brisk walk does Vivienne glimpse shapes in motion up ahead. The early morning mist over the snow turns the landscape into one plucked out of a dream, like a vision from the Fade: Adaar silhouetted against the sunrise; Adaar walking away into the distance.

The beast is with her. The two of them stop and then turn as one when Vivienne comes closer.

"It would be a nice addition to the story, wouldn't it?" Adaar says. "The Inquisitor disappearing in the snow."

Walking closer, Vivienne puts her hand on top of the phoenix's feathered head, feeling it shiver in delight at her touch. "Has it finally come down to this, then? You're running away."

"Is that not what you've been waiting for?"

"I have, since the first time you brought me to the Hinterlands and had us track down a lost druffalo."

"I am glad I am not disappointing you this time. There's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

There's a slope where they stand, increasing Adaar's naturally greater height. She towers over her, hair having come loose from her braid, caught by the wind, as white as the snow around them. For all her height, her width, her strength, the power etched into her palm, and in who she is to people, to the Inquisition, to everyone who looks at her and sees someone holy — and despite her years she looks terribly, awfully young, younger than Vivienne can ever remember being.

"You do not disappoint me," Vivienne says. 

There's more to be said, of course. Words never fail her, they're her allies, tools, and weapons, every bit as much as her magic is, but for a brief moment they desert her, leaving the two of them with nothing but silence.

Adaar breaks the brittle stillness with words she has uttered too many times already. "I brought you the heart you asked for."

"I know."

"It didn't matter."

"Of course it matters."

"He still died."

"You do not need to remind me."

In the snow in front of her, Adaar falls to her knees, brushing her fingers lightly over the white surface.

"When I first arrived at the Conclave," she says, "the snow amazed me. And after, when Cassandra hauled me around Haven with a sword to my neck, I still couldn't stop staring at it."

The phoenix follows her example and comes to seat itself next to her, making a small, questioning noise. Adaar pays it no notice.

"There was a body, burned to a crisp," she continues. "The snow had settled on it. I couldn't even smell it, but something moved inside the hollow of its chest — a spider crawling out through its ribs. I dream of it. Burning in the snow. A thousand spiders crawling out from between my ribs..."

She leans back to look up at the sky, painted in all the colors of the sunrise. Far in the distance, over Judicael's Crossing, a dragon soars, wide-winged and slow.

"I am going to die. I will burn like that body, leaving nothing but bones and ashes behind."

Studying the strain on her face, Vivienne says nothing until Adaar tears her eyes away from the sky to meet her gaze. "I thought," she says, "that the idea of any sort of animal finding your ribcage a suitable home would be comforting to you."

"I don't find the idea of perishing under the hand of an evil god comforting," Adaar says, with a flash of anger in her eyes; provoked as intended. "In the Fade, my gravestone didn't even carry my name, because once all of this is done there'll be nothing left of me, not even that."

"I thought you knew better than to listen to demons."

"The Nightmare Demon wasn't wrong. You cannot fight a god. I will die."

"Everyone dies."

"Your sympathy is noted."

"As is your flair for the dramatic." Closing the distance between them in a few short steps, Vivienne puts her bare hand on Adaar's face, cupping her cheek, washed free of any trace of vitaar. "You will not run. I won't let you."

Adaar exhales, her whole body slumping with it, leaning against Vivienne's hand. Next to her, the phoenix tilts its head, producing a longing little whine. 

"She loves you," Adaar says, because the other side of quiet and brusque is this terrible, fervent earnestness. Orlais would rip her apart. Vivienne would never let them.

"Foolishly," she replies, with a sigh.

"Yes," Adaar agrees. "We're two of a kind."

It is too soon, she cannot offer her heart up for another hurt. There are cuts and bruises that still need to heal and she cannot, she _cannot_ – 

"I am not all-powerful," she says, all exhale and not entirely without tremor. "You brought me what I asked and it wasn't enough. But before that, I spent years doing everything in my substantial power to save him. Do you truly think I have any intention of spending my time in the Inquisition, my time with _you_ , any differently?"

Vivienne cups Adaar's face in both hands, leaning forward to kiss her forehead, the tip of her nose, her mouth. "And in return," she continues, "I expect you to act befitting your station." 

Adaar’s jaw clenches stubbornly against her hands. "You always expect me to be something I'm not."

"No," Vivienne says. "I expect you to never stop striving to be better than you are." She kisses her mouth again, sweetly, hurriedly, over and over, hands tight around her face.

Adaar puts a single hand on her waist, and her heart soars like the dragons in the sky.

The phoenix makes an impatient little noise somewhere close and is decidedly ignored by the both of them.

"What does that even mean, Vivienne?" Adaar asks against her lips, breathing in as Vivienne breathes out.

"It means that you will grab onto life and cling to it until they have to pry it out of your hands. But you will not run." 

She kisses her again, harder, slower, a sealed promise against her lips — risen from the ashes of everything that came before — and Adaar breathes it in, steals that which shields her from fear and leaves only determination and an awful, wrenching vulnerability behind.

"I will never, ever let you."


End file.
